A Fresh Start
by Ranranami
Summary: It would have been so much better if the trap had killed them. Or at least one of them. Boyd has quite a lot of demons to face now, not the least of whom being Ives himself.
1. Bon Appetit

A man dies once. A god, twice. Somewhere in between lie monsters.

"Cover them up, Lindus. You can empty the trap tomorrow morning. The ground's still hard anyway, it's far too much work for two men to build a grave." General Slauson. Curt. Hard. A man who'd seen enough death in his career with little to say for the massacre they'd found.

"Will a blanket do, sir?"

"Damn it man, does it look like anyone else around here needs it anymore? That Indian woman danced off on her own, I doubt she'll come back to complain. Where on god's green earth do you think Major Knox went?" General Slauson's voice, angry, clipped yet surprisingly energetic, began to fade with the creak of the closing barn door.

Boyd hovered on the brink, listening, waiting. Waiting for the last spark of life in himself to go numb, for his soul to be set free as payment for the one brave act he'd committed to repent for a lifetime of cowardice. Apparently it wasn't enough.

He waited. Through the aging day into the late winter night. Yet, still, he lived. The memory surged forth of being buried already with his fellow soldiers as the earth and the knowledge of the fateful spark of flame that would have consumed him if he hadn't escaped. Then, too, with that came the taste of blood. Theirs. His. Ives'.

 _Ives…_

"C-..C-..." Boyd's tongue conspired against him, refusing to let him mutter the word, the fateful word that very well could re-awaken the monster beneath him. More blood coating his mouth, and then that...hunger...so much stronger now, so much worse. He hadn't thought it possible.

Slowly, he opened his eyes, only to meet the blank and staring pair beneath him. Yet, no other movement. No breath.

 _No life._

He didn't like that. The bastard shouldn't have the right. Shouldn't have the release...Boyd's eyes fixed on the smeared cross of blood on his forehead, and how arrogant Ives had been to liken himself to Christ. Or the devil. Somehow, his lips were already pressed to the dried red of blood on Ives face, pale, cold fingers gripping slowly at the fabric of the dead man's uniform. He denied the strangely feral intimacy this seemed to invoke in him, as if mere cannibalism wasn't already repulsive enough. Boyd angrily quelled the way his body seemed to thrill with the taste of Ives on his tongue.

Boyd didn't want to do it, didn't want to live and eat, yet here he was...and somehow even what little he could get to seemed to give him an odd surge of strength. Power. Virility, as Ives might have said.

Then true life came back to his arms, enough to contort them back, to press and dig his dirtied red nails between the cracks of the trap's teeth, through the shreds of his own sweater and flesh. He screamed, struggled to shift the stubborn metal rust.

 _Am I finally dying_?

No, he wasn't so lucky. The teeth moved enough for cool air to sweep in and blow through his wounds like a fleshed panpipe, and then his arms gave out, and he screamed again as the trap once more dug back into him. It felt even worse than before, as fresh strength and life oozed anew from his back.

Boyd whimpered, and in pain he almost laughed at the notion that he could be fortunate his screams likely went unheard. The same wind that had licked his wounds had also carried his voice away with a fresh blanket of snow clearly forming through the cracks of the shabby barn door.

Yet still, Ives lay, dead. Lucky. Almost invincible, even as a corpse. Boyd hated that deathly smile, even as he began to lick at the crusted blood again, instincts taking over to try and rouse what was left of himself to try once more to escape. His vision danced, and he struggled to lift the jaws once more. Second by second. Each centimeter a breath, each inch a mile. Muscles burned fresh, protested, yearned to give in.

Then. _Then._ He was free. As if by some horrible miracle, Boyd escaped, and rolled onto the bloodied earth beside him, Ives head having lolled away so that the catch was no longer pressed.

Numb, worse even than when he'd began his struggle, Boyd stared towards the corpse, still grimacing.

"You're...y…" He coughed up a fresh blossom of dark blood, darker than he'd ever seen before.

 _Dead!_

He wanted to scream it, to rise and rend the flesh from Ives' bones, limb by limb. To consume him. To take. To have. In so many ways. It would be so easy, if not for those final damnable words clouding his mind. Eat or die?

Boyd would rather die. Even more, he'd rather die under the stars and be buried in snow than for his final sight to be the thing lying beside him. So like a cat seeking the shade of safety to die, so to did Boyd drag himself, slowly, gasping and panting...towards the door. His legs could not move, his mind could no longer rationalize. He was a twisting thread, and each inch of the bloody trail he left in the dirt behind him brought one more fresh wave of agony and forced the blackness to crowd in even further until there were only small specks of light before him he still shouldn't have been able to see, were he a normal man.

Unfortunately, Boyd did not get to see the stars. He was at the door when he finally fell painlessly into the dark.

The trap behind him creaked. Fresh blood stung his senses anew with its siren song.

 _Bon Appetit...you bastard..._

Boyd's final thought. He hoped.

* * *

Ivest despised this sort of pain when he was the one forced to endure it. Far too reminiscent of convalescence, of the days he'd thought his fate was simply to endlessly rest and wait until consumption finally had its way with his emaciated body. Still, this pain really was only a minor... _inconvenience._ Lying like a doll beneath Boyd, cozy, silent while he let the other do all the work. He wasn't quite dead yet. He was just a very good actor, as he'd already demonstrated several times to the residents of Fort Spencer. It was a shame for the good little soldier he hadn't seen through this final little performance. Ives was almost disappointed.

 _Really, Captain Boyd...I can read you like a book._

At first, he supposed he had been waiting for Boyd to die, much as the other man was waiting for him. If he'd even known that was Boyd's desire, he could have happily obliged him and gotten a nice meal out of the bargain, save for one tiny little problem. He was beginning to have far too much fun to let it end with that.

Boyd was an endless well of entertainment. Those thoughtful, tormented eyes that had always been focused inward, the first time they flashed in fear and defiance towards him when Boyd had taken the dive from the cliff to escape...Ives delighted in it. Reveled in it. In that little moment, he knew that with a little work, he could _make_ him. Create something far greater out of the young man than Boyd would ever have dreamed. This last fight, too, was absolutely...breathtaking. He had so much fight in him, so much... _spirit_. Not like their unfortunate companion Colonel Hart who'd deemed it better to take his own life after all the trouble Ives had taken to groom him, there could most certainly be more than mere conversation with Boyd. Ives felt a familiar discomfort he didn't really feel he could afford easing at that moment, given how limited his resources were, bleeding as heavily as he was.

In truth, Boyd was a miserable conversationalist anyway. He didn't really talk much at all unless it was to issue some sort of warning to an idiot or a threat he couldn't carry through. That suited Ives just fine, as he'd always enjoyed the sound of his own voice over all others. If his lungs still weren't freshly healed from peeling himself slowly and carefully from the trap, he probably would have began to talk right then an there. Said something sweet, something deliciously poignant, if just a little arrogant. He would have gloated over Boyd's prone body, supped from his wounds as the man had dined on him...a glorious feast...

Ah, but there would be plenty of time for that, once dawn arrived, and the General or his little page boy returned to deal with their bodies.

"Mmmmmhhh..." Ives rumbled, halfway between a growl and an appetite-inducing groan, dragging himself much like Boyd had across the earthen floor, though much quicker. He was, after all, no newcomer to half-death. In fact, he shouldn't doubt it would become a regular occurrence if he wasn't more careful around his unwilling new friend nearby. Ives grinned with blood-stained lips, managing to lean against one of the weakened walls of the barn, awaiting breakfast. There were plenty of tools at his disposal, and plenty of time left to regain some modicum of strength. Perhaps even enough to deal with Boyd later.

Ives closed his eyes, still grinning, and hummed Toffler's unfinished hymn.


	2. Alive

Author notes: As I wrote this, I realised Ives had other plans in mind than simply killing and eating the others right off the bat...he's the consummate cat and mouse schemer, as I'm sure we all know.

* * *

It simply made no sense to trudge out into the storm that had seemed to come out of nowhere, just to honor a couple of dead men with a blanket; dead men who, by the way, Lindus and General Slauson had absolutely no way of confirming whether or not they were suicidal murderers or victims of Colonel Hart, who it appeared had not in fact died in the woods, judging by the freshness of his bloodied corpse propped up in his desk chair.

So instead, they played cards, they waited out the storm, and General Slauson greedily ate stew while he decided exactly how to go about dealing with this mess.

"Animals will get to all of them if we both leave the fort," the General remarked, lapping at the drops of thickened broth clinging to his moustache. "This sort of snow brings out the scavengers when the blood settles in the air," he went on, as if by merit of his rank he somehow knew any and everything there was to know about nature and her mysterious ways.

"Do you think Martha would have gone out in the wilds like she did tonight, if there was something dangerous out there like that, sir?" Lindus inquired, shuffling the cracked cards with their faded ink and torn corners. He hadn't the appetite the General seemed to possess tonight, and frankly would be perfectly happy to dine once they were safely away from this place. Too much death. He could get plenty of that on the battlefield.

"Can't say," the General barked. "Natives. They've got too little sense for you to make much out of them. Maybe she just didn't want to clean up the mess. Maybe she's going to go chant some kind of nonsense in the snow with her drawers at her ankles. I don't know, Lindus." His mild irritation at the younger man's constant questions, constant need to understand and sort out their situation as quickly as possible did not settle well with Slauson. He just wanted to enjoy his lovely meal in peace, let the hot broth take away the cold of the storm. He didn't bother to use his spoon now, slurping at the savory dregs of his meal, hardly even noting the slight pinkish hue to the broth, or the odd texture of the meat. Nothing like deer or beef, or even a thick shank of preserved horse hide. No, not at all.

"Boyd was too ill to have managed all of this," Lindus mumbled more to himself now, laying out the deck patiently on the dinner table in front of him. Each face he revealed for his solitary game with almost a curious expression, from what he could see through the flecks of missing ink and paper. They were his main audience now in the face of the General's ill mood. He had never seen the man eat so slovenly before. Nor could he honestly say he wasn't a little surprised to see him stand up to gather a third portion from the cookfire.

Lindus rubbed his dry fingers together, licking them so he could draw out another card from his other hand, "I think Martha said he was cuffed as well, observed, kept from causing any more harm...but what if it wasn't him? We have Hart in his office...dead, now. Ives most certainly wouldn't have done all of this. The others...it only leaves Knox." He frowned, "none of this makes any se-"

The General's bowl tumbled from his hand, spilling meat and wilted vegetables into the wooden slats under his feet, and Lindus's deck slipped from his hand just as easily to make a mess of his game on the table, both of them turning in shock towards the door at the sound of a loud, horrifying scream...a howling man…

Then... _silence_ …

* * *

Little ants running over his skin. Tickling at first, their tiny legs forming goosebumps in their tracks to mark their path. Then biting. Scorching. Melting... _god!_

Every single part of John Boyd came alive with fresh pain, and he wanted to seize forward to escape it, but the most he could manage was a feeble, pathetic spasm. His eyes didn't seem to want to cooperate with him either, and deliriously he wondered if the ants he felt were in fact maggots burrowing into his skin and feasting on the tainted flesh that lay therein…

As if the very thought was enough to force his body to comply, he was finally able to pry one, and then two eyelids open. Attempting to sit up again would be too much for his weary shell of a body, and so he settled for what he could get. The ants, the maggots, whatever they were, seemed to melt away to nothing in the face of consciousness.

He was in a bed, and judging by the particular way the slats dug into his shoulders and spine, it was his own. A shabby construction of cloth, wood, and what little filling the military could afford for the exiled remnants of people they'd sent out to endure the end of their commissions and probably lives at Fort Spencer.

 _How?_

A firm rapping at his chamber door caught his attention, with the sheer way the sound of flesh against wood seemed to drive a nail into his skull. "Boyd? Are you awake? Alive, still?" It was Lindus, the General's assistant, and he was apparently in one piece. That must mean Ives had in fact died…somehow, by the grace of the same god who'd left them to rot out here.

The door creaked open to reveal the very same man, LIndus, holding a small bundle tucked firmly under one arm, and a bowl with a spoon in the other hand, "you've been asleep for three days." He stepped inside and leaned hard against the door to close it when a fresh gust of cold air blew in behind him to nip through the pitiable excuse for a blanket on Boyd's bed, and ravage his aching flesh.

A meal! His eyes sparked, his stomach churn, and he was helpless to the needs of its protesting screeches. Though there was no steam rising from the bowl in Lindus's hand, the fragrance was strong enough to almost pull him into a sitting position, if his arms and muscles still weren't firmly convinced that they had in fact been turned into mere effigies of body parts. Tributes to the function, but completely unable to imitate it.

Lindus placed the bundle at the foot of the bed, grabbing a shabby chair from the corner of the room to drag it forward and settle beside him, "here, we've managed to get some broth in you while you slept, but nothing real. You've been through alot, _Captain_ Boyd." There was none of the familiar censure, the sarcasm in the way he spoke the title. Lindus had, after all, been one of the select few men who'd called him a coward before he'd been sent to this post. Their previous encounter when he'd tried to warn them about Ives hadn't been very pleasant, eit-... _Ives…_

"Ives!" Boyd managed to rasp, akin to a death rattle in his weakness, stretching and fading into empty air.

"Don't worry, we've taken care of Ives," Lindus informed him gently, gathering a spoonful of stew and immediately pressing it to Boyd's lips in an attempt to get him fed as soon as possible, before his body finally gave out for good.

It was nice to know that apparently they'd finally understood, knew about Ives...Boyd didn't care to think how, he just wanted to eat...and the food smelled so good...the meat tasted so satisfying…

Each bite brought him closer to bliss, each gentle scrape of the spoon in the bowl a siren song...Boyd almost let himself forget what his last meal had been.

His eyes popped open fully, and he summoned up his strength, which was coming easier, to try and shove the bowl away, "no!" Boyd managed with far more force now, angered by the fact that already he'd regained a sliver...a bite or two of real life...Knox's life.

"Boyd, calm down or you'll kill yourself," Lindus warned, the firmness of his usual self returning in full force once he'd removed the bowl from harm's way, "I _know_ it isn't pleasant to eat the last thing Knox made before he and Colonel Hart tried to kill the both of you, but this is the best we have right now until the storm is over."

"...Wh...what?" Boyd stammered, his teeth beginning to chatter before Lindus heaved a sigh and placed the bowl on the ground beside him to reach towards the bundle he'd brought.

"Ives told us, before we had him settled and bandaged in his quarters. The whole story. We know you had a breakdown when Hart led you and the others out into the woods to butcher them, and given your past...braveries...I can easily see why it was easier to believe a monster appeared to do the job instead. He also told me how you came to your senses when the man showed up again, and Knox seemed to be inclined towards the same kind of sickening proclivities." He unwrapped the bundle, weaving a story that both sickened and confused Boyd.

Ives had indeed been taken care of, only not quite in the way he'd hoped. Then...to tell such lies, to paint the very man he'd just been supping on as some sort of madman...when in fact…

It was him...and Ives...they were both far worse than Lindus could ever imagine. Boyd paled at the thought. _No. Not like Ives…_

A nagging little voice pricked at his conscience, the same one who'd so happily reminded him how he'd failed his friends, his fellow soldiers in battle, to claim the rewards of _their_ bravery when he'd taken the outpost... _Just like Ives...can't die…_

 _You're just like him…_

The smell of Lindus's sweat, his pumping blood and muscle, the very way he could imagine tearing the man open with his dirtied nails and teeth, told Boyd the truth of the matter. The truth he'd tried to kill with the stolen spirit of Knox settled in his stomach, and the remaining madness of Reich.

"Now, I can't say I've much experience with this, but it will have to do." The bundle Lindus had brought was several layers of torn, wrapped linens, and he quickly rolled Boyd's blanket down so he could get to work peeling away at bandages bound around his chest and stomach. "After this, I'll get you fed a bit more, bring you some water, and you can continue resting." Lindus would refuse anything Boyd had to tell him, the stern set to his jaw was evidence of that.

He would, to everyone but the devil who knew the truth, always be a madman. To some extent, too, a coward.


	3. Nightfall

General Slauson stroked his moustache thoughtfully, standing beside Ives' bedside, his shoulders stiff and legs parted firmly with what the Wendigo could only assume was the flushed strength of the meal in his belly. There would not be much left. He supposed getting rid of the bones instead of saving them for extra stock later had been a good idea. By now the man would surely have noticed something odd about the stew if he hadn't.

At the moment, it would be far easier to relax first, recover, and have a much better meal. Keep the rest of the meat fresh while they weathered out the storm.

"I did what I had to, General, sir," Ives remarked, in great spirits, tiring of the tense silence as Slauson pondered the story he'd fashioned the night they'd been brought in, and insisted Ives tell him at least three more times until he was satisfied.

He was freshly bandaged, though by now after this last bowl he certainly didn't need any more, relaxing in bed, and seeing firsthand exactly how the restorative powers of his 'cooking' worked on the elderly. Not _quite_ as nicely, but surely enough to have given the man another decade. Perhaps even tenderize his muscles enough to make them more palatable, should the need arise. Ives had never been overly-fond of the flesh of the infirm or aging. It was best young and fresh, wherein the strength of a man or woman's true spirit was at its peak.

Initially, he'd wanted to make General Slauson like himself, but unfortunate circumstances having arisen, his desire to expand was not nearly so great anymore. After all, Hart had been a miserable disappointment.

"Unfortunately," Ives cleared his throat, "I do not think Knox will be caught. Likely...he'll have died out there in the snow by now, or been devoured by wild animals," he waved a hand casually in the hour, "devoured by wolves. I shouldn't think we'll find anything else but bones when the thaw sets in."

"You're recovering well," the General replied, "you needn't worry yourself about him. Soon, weather permitting, I will be setting out to bring back reinforcements. Lindus will remain to see to your needs, though given how you're faring, I don't think you'll need him so much as Captain Boyd will."

Ah, yes. Boyd. The late riser. What an interesting little game this would be. He wondered what the Captain would do, once he was awake. Play the hero card again? Warn them of the dangers they faced at Fort Spencer if they so much as turned their backs on Ives? Ives was eager to learn. Perhaps a visit was in order, then, when the others retired. He was more than capable of walking now. Much more.

"Don't be too harsh on him, sir, he recovered much of his senses before this incident, and once Martha left to fetch the pair of you. I must say, some of the terrors Knox brought back to this Fort made Captain Boyd a much...stronger soldier," Ives lips twitched into his pleasant and perhaps just a little deceptive smile.

Then, as if he were in the position to do the dismissing and not the General himself, Ives picked up the book he'd had in his lap, a composition of satirical essays, numbering among them one he couldn't quite see fault with and was in fact reading for the tenth time or more, 'A Modest Proposal.'

General Slauson, not quite observant enough to note the action, bowed his head to Ives, "good day, Colonel. If you find yourself in need of anything, I'm sure Lindus will be in shortly to aid you."

Once the man was gone, Ives found it more than appropriate to grab a small cigar he'd been saving for just such an occasion as this, tucked away in his fresh and folded uniform placed neatly at a chair beside his bed. It would have to be lit, so he was forced to reach for his worn box of matches beneath the bed itself.

A dragon in his den, Ives savored the smoke streaming from his lips, remembering how good it felt the first time he could do so without a hellfire cough drawing his own blood to his lips. How _good_ it was to be alive. How _delicious._

* * *

Lindus stood outside in the cool night air, back to the door of Boyd's quarters, thoughtfully staring out at the white carpet of snow surrounding Fort Spencer. He didn't think he'd enjoy staying here very long. This was the sort of place you sent a man to hide him, to forget him, when a proper military discharge would do more harm than good.

So, here they were now, and frankly he wondered if it might not have been better if they _had_ all been discharged from service after all. Perhaps, then, they'd be alive. Or at least he wouldn't have to deal with this mess, or any of the grunt work that came of being the General's personal errand boy.

Was it selfish of him to wish Boyd a quick death, and perhaps even the Colonel? At least then they could return to San Miguel more expediently. Fort Spencer. The end of the world. Even the devil would shun this empty, _miserable_ place.

What was that?!

He spun about, his thick coat twisting heavily in the wind about him when Lindus spun to catch a faint glimpse of some shadow slipping through the dark. "Martha?" He called out warily, and then, licking his lips with a nervous frown, he placed his hand on the knife tucked into his belt. "...Major Knox?"

The only response was silence, and even the echo of Lindus's voice was muted by the snow about him.

He didn't notice the eyes, almost black in their feral excitement, or the delightfully amused smile of Ives hidden in a dark corner beside the soggy woodpile beside the lookout station. The frosty breath of smoke drifting into the air might as well have been a stream of air from a dying rat trapped in the snow, for all Lindus could see.

Lucky, that. Otherwise the misfortunate soldier may very well have found the coiffed part in his hair far more sharply split with the head of an axe. Tense, he slowly picked his way back through the night to the main quarters, where he would spend the remainder of the evening resting and waiting for morning to check if Boyd was still breathing.

So...the unwitting mouse got to live another day, and Ives, well...Ives got to savor the taste of his fear on the air. Almost as exquisite as his dying cigar. He flicked the charred corpse of tobacco leaves into the snow, chuckling as his boots crunched in the snow.

* * *

Boyd saw sap on a healthy tree in spring being cut too soon, and the sticky sweetness of it drew his palm forward, turning as red as rubies on his skin. He was buried in a wooden cage now, covered in the stuff, trapped beneath the bodies of former friends and comrades, waiting to burn...iron and salt ran down his throat, burned his eyes, seeped into his bones. With it came something else, a hunger he'd thought to escape. A need.

He was dining with Cleaves, Hart, and Toffler, ignoring the soft prayer in favor of an extra slice of Reich. The rough, chewy flesh didn't seem to mix well with pine needles. George laughed with Cleaves, and Martha wept beside the phantom of her brother...yet still, Boyd wanted more, always more...and when he tasted real blood on his lips, his dream abruptly shattered, only for him to find Ives grinning smugly above him, while blood from his sliced palm dripped into Boyd's open mouth.

Clenching his reddened teeth, he tried to leap forward to lash out at the monster beside him, but instead found himself nearly toppling out of his bed while Ives gave a taunting laugh and easily stepped out of his reach.

"Sweet dreams, Boyd?"

Legs tangled in his fur bed covers, he jerked up and glared hatefully back at Ives, "do it, then. _Eat me, you bastard!_ "

"Is that anyway to greet a superior?" The monster chided, kneeling down to patronizingly tap one of Boyd's cheeks, a gesture somewhere between a slap and a caress. He still didn't have the strength to make another attempt on Ives's life so soon, not when he'd only been willing (and unwilling) to eat one serving of the devil's stew that morning. Already, moving too swiftly in his attempts to lash out, he'd managed to tear open one of the crusting wounds beneath his bandages. The faint scent of iron in the air was evidence enough of that.

Teeth still clenched, Boyd bunched the fur about his waist and struggled to climb to his feet, damned if he'd give Ives the added pleasure of seeing him on his knees. It was alarmingly difficult to reposition himself on the bed, and he was all too happy to slap Ives hand away when it was offered.

"Now, now, temper, Captain Boyd," Ives stood back, holding up his hands in a placating gesture as if Boyd were some unreasonable woman about to throw a dish at his head, and not a man who would gladly kill him, and indeed had almost had.

He was still alive, and he could still taste Ives on his tongue...which only served to upset him even more.

"You've _won,_ Ives. What more do you want from me?" It made no sense. Boyd had already proved he couldn't be trusted as an ally, much less an acquaintance, given their limited history. Did he think he could do anything worse than he already had?

"I'd like to have a little chat," Ives bowed his head slightly with the quick arch of an eyebrow, his smile a little more modest, though no less irritating. "That is, uh, if you don't... _mind_ …" Dark eyes took Boyd in, lingered, devoured. He didn't like that. Not one bit.

In favor of silence, Boyd turned his head away, keeping his mouth shut and trying to avoid eye contact with Ives when he finally gave in to the urge to clean the blood from his teeth. To get rid of the taste, he told himself. That was all.

"Nothing else to say?" Ives inquired, tilting his head and leaning forward, "really? Not that I'm surprised, of course. You don't strike me as a man of many words, I'm sure you'd much rather hide and _lick you wounds,_ sneak about and wait to strike, wouldn't you, Boyd?" A pause, and still he wouldn't get the satisfaction of hearing Boyd snap back at him. " _Coward…_ " Ives whispered, knowing it would strike home.

"Bastard," Boyd hissed right back at him, jerking his head back and glaring, which gave Ives the opportunity to lash out like a viper and firmly grasp Boyd's chin. He grunted, attempting to jerk free, but there was little enough energy to fight him sitting down, let alone much else.

"Calm down," Ives commanded him, trying to soothe the weary and angry man, "you'll waste what little you have left, and then how will you kill me, hm? We're just talking tonight, Boyd, nothing more. That'll give you plenty of time to recover, perhaps even try again. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" He spoke as he would to a stubborn child, loosening his grip a little once Boyd had settled down enough to simply glare. If looks could kill...

"You know, I wondered at first when you were lying on top of me out there, why you fought me so hard, when all I did was offer you more freedom than you've ever known. More satisfaction. Life. Pleasure..." He settled down on the mattress, and Boyd clenched his jaw, refusing to move again once Ives had released his grip on him.

"I don't want whatever Hell it is you're offering," he returned with a disgusted grimace.

"Mmmmhh...perhaps if you'd had better, fare, then? Better...meat?" Ives laughed at the way Boyd finally tried to move and put distance between them. But, alas, it was not a very large bed, and it was very easy for him to lean just a little bit closer, and grip him once more, though this time by the neck.

"What do you mean by that?" He demanded, alarmed, and hating the way chills ran down his spine at those words. What the hell did he mean?!

"Hart, for instance, Boyd...I'd imagine he'd taste soft. Rich. Like pork. Now, Reich of course, you remember how he was...don't you, Boyd?" Ives leaned even closer, pressing his nose to Boyd's cheek, and the weaker soldier finally reached up to grip at the hand on his neck and try to push it away. No use, of course, but he tried anyway with steady and exhausting pressure.

"There was Toffler, too...ahhhh, like a lamb. You _might_ have been more eager if you'd had a bit of his flesh instead, Boyd. Succulent. Innocent...tender...would you like to know what George was like? He and Cleaves had a lot in common. The peyote gave their muscles a very smoky quality...delightful, with the acquired taste, and I'm sure you could learn to enjoy it, too...if you'd just give in to what _you are…_ "

"Get away from me!" Boyd shouted, digging his nails into the fist on his neck, scratching, cutting.

"If you're not careful, you'll bleed out even more," Ives advised, his amusement seeming to fade a little once he pulled back, though his grip remained still as he shoved Boyd back down onto the mattress. Streaks of blood were already showing through the bandages around his chest and stomach, while the fur remained wrapped tightly about his legs.

"I'm going to give you time, a luxury you'll probably regret later," he went on, settling himself comfortably above Boyd like a lover, though that was far from what he'd ever willingly take part in. Of this fact, he was certain.

"Time for what?" He asked, tensing even more when he felt an unexpected betrayal of his body, hoping Ives would not be inclined to notice it. This was far too repulsive for Boyd to feel anything but hatred and disgust...so why, then, did his hands relax a little, or his face burn furiously when Ives gave him yet another one of those awful roving looks?

"Time to give in. To accept. Sooner or later, when the storm abates, and Slauson is off on his little journey...you'll get hungry, boyd...and I doubt the potatoes or onions in the larder, or even the smoked meat, what little is left...will ever satisfy you…" Ives leaned down, pressing his lips to Boyd's ear, "and when you do... _decide_ to give in...as if you have the luxury of a choice, I'll be waiting with open arms."

Then, faster than he had any time to register what had occurred, the pressure on his neck was gone, and Ives was at the door.

"Pleasant dreams," he chuckled, licking at his fingers.

Boyd stared back, dazed, and more fearful than he'd been since he'd learned to embrace death as an escape from the Wendigo...before he pressed a hand to his bruised neck, brushing against the sticky warmth of his own blood.


	4. Good-bye Lindus

Author's notes: Thank you for the input, guys. Been taking my time on this story, so sorry if I've kept you in suspense. Anyway...Enjoy.

* * *

The storm had abated and weakened even as Colonel Ives seemed to miraculously recover, at least enough to be able to leave his quarters to dine with Lindus and the general by the cookfire. Boyd was not so lucky, and there was a growing doubt the man even had the constitution to survive through the week, as despondent as he'd remained with little to do but glare daggers when Ives was available to help Lindus bring in fresh linens or food for him in the evenings.

Ives was, in fact, most anxious to help out in any way he could. The General tried to persuade him to rest, but he was having none of it, and would beg them privacy in the smokehouse when he was of a mood to prepare food for them. The stew having been ravenously devoured by then, Ives insisted he be allowed this one concession, and indeed it seemed to do the man good to work as he recovered.

"A true soldier," the General would remark as he tucked into an extra helping of chopped and peppered steak, only just shy of being fully cooked. The pink juices still ran on their plates with each fresh bite. "You have a great future, Colonel, once your post as interim commander of Fort Spencer is filled," he smiled with the air of a man giving an empty compliment, an empty promise, stroking his whiskers to flatten and smooth the grease from his meal onto his fingers.

Lindus quietly examined the contents of his glass, savoring these final moments before the General would depart in the morning, and he would be left at night to keep watch and care for Boyd simultaneously. That was, of course, unless Ives was willing to help. If he was in the right condition to do so. There was, after all, still no absolute guarantee that Knox wasn't out there somewhere, alive and well. You couldn't predict the moves of a madman unless you shared his peculiarities, after all.

Nor, it seemed, could you predict the peculiarities of a man lying on what very well could be his deathbed. The door to the living quarters swung wide, causing Lindus and the General to nearly leap to their feet, steak knives at the ready. Standing in the melting snow and icy wind, a woolen blanket bound tightly about his shoulders, freshly-split wounds in his stomach bleeding into his bandages and spotting his sweater, stood a very stubborn and nearly maddened Boyd.

"Boyd!" General Slauson barked, slamming his steak knife to the table, sending it skittering across the scarred wood with a clatter. "What on earth do you think you're doing here?! Is what little sense you still possess bleeding out of you?"

Boyd's eyes flickered towards Ives momentarily, giving Lindus the peculiar feeling he was missing something very important, before the crazed man pulled back his cracked lips to speak, "I was cold. Came to sit by the fire," he ground out, stumping into the room and slamming the door firmly behind him.

The General relaxed somewhat in his seat, snatching up his knife to stab it into his meal, "suit yourself, then. Lindus _won't_ be replacing your linens tonight, however." The General's temper lately seemed to have shortened quite a bit, and Lindus was almost astonished at how little it seemed to bother him that they'd very likely find yet another dead body to bury in the morning, given how drawn Boyd was looking. Much worse than that afternoon when Lindus had tried to persuade him to eat, and he'd flung the plate across the room in a fit of stubborn rage.

"Well," Colonel Ives settled back in his chair, having remained oddly silent throughout the tense interaction, "I can see someone will have to look after the Captain tonight, and seeing as I'm still not _quite_ in the spirit of perfect health, I can't imagine I'd be up to the task." He had a faintly amused smile playing on his face, which could easily be taken for nervous humor or something else...and in that moment, Lindus could almost believe there was something darker lurking behind the Colonel's constant pleasant demeanor.

"Lindus," the General intoned, and there seemed little point in explaining exactly what his order would be.

"Very well, sir," Lindus nodded, glancing over at Boyd, "I hope you enjoy cards, Captain, because it's the only thing my company can offer you." He felt conversation between them would lead to nothing but a sour stomach on Lindus's part. In the last few days whenever he'd tried to speak with the man, he'd only been met with the occasional ominous remark on the natures of Aristotle and Plato. No man so dry belonged on the battlefield.

Boyd stared at them all for quite some time, giving Lindus an even greater sense of unease, those solemn and somehow too-sharp blue eyes lingering on an empty space just past Ives's shoulder. Lost in some other world.

"For god's sake, take a seat somewhere, Boyd!" The general snapped, shoveling more meat into his mouth and smacking his lips. "You're spoiling our supper."

The man seemed to finally shake himself from his trance, and slowly hobbled towards an armchair placed squarely in front of the cookfire, his back turned to the rest of the seated company.

"You should eat something, Captain," Ives remarked, placing a thin cigar between his lips. "You'll feel much better." He glanced over at Lindus, "fresh meat can work wonders on the spirit, don't you agree?"

Lindus wasn't entirely certain those last words were really directed at himself, but he nodded nonetheless. More than anything, he wanted to leave Fort Spencer then and there. He didn't like this place. He didn't like Boyd. More and more, he found, he didn't very much like Ives either.

* * *

He was cold. Through flesh to bone, not an inch of his skin had any feeling left. Boyd was a walking corpse, and each movement or spoken word drained him even further. Little by little. It had not been easy, foregoing the meals he knew would cure him. He refused to give that monster the satisfaction.

Lindus sat in a chair nearby, his hands clasped over his stomach while he slept. Sorry company, but preferable to the other two. Uneasily, Boyd listened to the sluggish beat of his resting heart. There was nothing else but the crackling embers to distract him from his dark thoughts.

Once, he had imagined dining on Cleaves in the snow. Too, he had even pictured rending Ives into nothing but bits of savory flesh and meat, taking for himself every bit of stolen strength and spirit the man or monster had to offer. He was not so fortunate to lose any and all desire to repeat these visions. Even now he wondered if the fat and tissue of Lindus, little more than a secretary, would be more tender than Reich...or sweeter than the whiskey pickled remains of Knox.

Ives was out there somewhere, now, very likely waiting in the snow for Boyd to join him outside. Expecting the fight he would surely win. Each passing hour and day he grew stronger, while Boyd...quite the opposite.

Morality...the last bastion of a coward? Or the last fleeting strength of a dying human soul?

"You're lucky," Boyd mumbled, staring at Lindus. Still sleeping. Still unaware of the horrors still lying in wait at Fort Spencer.

"You can't know…" His voice cracked, "what this feels like." He let the blanket fall from his shoulders, shaking hands slipping down to his knees so he could support himself as he leaned forward to glare into the fire. Dying. A pile of coals staring back at him with a dozen reddened eyes. Judging. Much like Ives, they would only need to consume more, to grow again into a healthy blaze. They would always eat, always take, as long as there was food to be offered. Kindling to be sacrificed at their brick alter.

Not much time left, now. He could feel himself dying. How wonderful it must be to give in, and how anticlimactic it seemed that after everything, he would fade peacefully into darkness as an old man might in his armchair. The bear trap, that great attempt to save himself from damnation, to save the world from a monster...all for nothing.

Everything was for nothing. Boyd was a coward.

He couldn't even hear the crackling wood, the collapsing shards of coal tinkling like glass. Or his thoughts, as bitter as they were. Now, there was just Lindus's heartbeat. The creaking of his own knee joints as he stood, shaking. The soft thud of heavy footfalls as Boyd lumbered towards the fireplace. Perhaps he would be fortunate to lose all strength now, or perhaps he wouldn't.

 _Morality._

 _Truth._

 _Sacrifice._

Three words, and now they all seemed to mean very little as he struggled to grip the iron poker beside the fire. Thought, maybe, to stoke the embers. Instead, he was spinning about slowly to face Lindus, still sleeping.

Boyd drug his feet across the wood again, the iron poker scraping on the ground. He didn't think there was anything left in him to do this, man or monster, any second he would crumble and fade to nothing.

"Boyd?" Lindus slowly opened his eyes, staring up at the gaunt man in front of him.

It was merciful. It was quick. It was surprisingly very easy, and when Boyd pulled the poker back to stare at the bleeding, horrible wound where Lindus's eye had once been, he could hardly believe how beautiful the blood looked dripping down his face, or how fascinating it was to stare at his spasming body.

"I'm sorry," Boyd informed him flatly, "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure exactly who those words were for, nor could he exactly summon any sense of surprise when the door to the living quarters swung open, and Ives stepped inside with his maddened grin and smoking cigar.

"Well," Ives removed the cigar, licking his lips, "I suppose you'll need some help, won't you, Boyd?" He clicked his tongue, striding forward, "quite a bit of life in him, isn't there?" He watched Lindus's spasming body fall to the ground, draping an arm over Boyd's shoulder just at the moment the man's strength finally gave out, and supporting him.

"There, now," Ives chuckled, "we can't have you falling asleep before dinner, can we?"

The poker clattered to the ground, and the scent of innocent blood in the air permanently stained the remains of Boyd's soul.


	5. Morality

It roused him from his slumber. The _smell._ Magnificent. General Slauson had never in his life enjoyed meat so thoroughly as he did now, at Fort Spencer. If an army truly marched on its stomach, he was quickly finding himself just as voracious as one. Yet, tomorrow he had a journey ahead of him, and far too much work to do to indulge in a meal this late at night. So, fitfully, he continued to sleep...not even concerned that anyone would be eating at such an odd hour. Ives cooking was so delectable, how could they not?

* * *

"You know, there's nothing quite like letting go," Ives remarked into the crackling fire, turning and twisting the rather large hunk of meat he'd carved and strung up with a bit of tallowed thread to roast just enough that the outside would be nicely charred. This was a special meal, after all. A celebration.

"I'd offer you something to drink, but, ah, I'm sure you know the last of our reserves were spent on Knox's...proclivities. Better that way, really. It was a mercy to kill him while the last of that port was pumping through his blood." He chuckled, looking back at Boyd, who had taken to glaring at him in that defiant way he had. "Stare at me all you like," he licked his lips slowly, "I could just have you eat it all raw. Quite pleasant that way, actually." He cocked his head to the side.

There was a haze behind those angry eyes, hunger and exhaustion battling with each other. Unfortunately for poor Lindus, the hunger was stronger. Ives would prove it to him, too. He quickly reached into the cook fire with his small paring knife, sawing off a pleasantly singed, but still bloodied bit of meat.

"Here," he held his hand out, "have a taste. You'll feel better." Then, with a bit of darker satisfaction in his voice, "you already know you'll like it."

"You," Boyd mumbled, too weak to even grind his teeth anymore, but the hate was strong enough in that one word for him to get his point across well enough.

"Mmmm," Ives hummed, bringing the meat closer to his own mouth, "Lindus may be dead, but there's so much...life...left in him...are you sure you don't want any?" His eyes sparkled with delight as he watched Boyd slowly inching forward despite himself.

He could just let the man die, of course. The less experienced windigo wouldn't have nearly as much strength, or vitality to live if he didn't eat soon. Ives was far more acquainted with his own nature, and he'd indulged often enough, especially recently, that he could very likely go weeks without flesh and still be fine. Somehow for all the trouble he was, Ives couldn't bring himself to eat Boyd...well, not in _quite_ the same way.

"Boooooyd…" Ives taunted in a devious whisper, sang his name, " _John…"_ He added, far more intimately, keeping the meat close to his own lips as if he still hadn't decided whether he would share or not. This was the most fun he'd had in quite some time. Not that Ives didn't always find a gruesome way to enjoy himself.

"Y...yyyy…" Boyd trembled, flinging himself forward and snatching at his salvation, which Ives very happily pressed to the man's mouth, eager and grinning as Boyd's eyes closed in sheer ecstasy. He could fight it. He could hate it. He could do anything but escape it, when hunger showed its ugly face to turn death away at the doorstep.

Has breathing was harsh as he chewed, groaning in short, shallow gasps, while Ives took the opportunity to pull him closer. He curled slender fingers through Boyd's hair, laughing against the crown of his head.

"It tastes better and better, doesn't it?" Ives whispered, reveling in this one of many victories. Whether anyone called him the devil incarnate, he could happily admit he was here today as Boyd's savior. Boyd's messiah.

"Do you want more?" Ives questioned, pulling back and reaching towards the rest of the meat dangling invitingly over the cookfire. "Hardly done enough for polite company, but certainly hot. I don't imagine you're too picky right now, are you?"

Boyd angrily shoved at Ives's chest, the remainder of his one bite smacking of iron on his tongue at least gave him strength to break the man's hold. "Damn you," Boyd rasped, pressing his hands to his face.

"You first, John, though I think by now we've both long since reached that point," Ives smirked, cutting the twine that held the meat. Good, soft, a very tender cut despite his limited time for preparation. Lindus would not likely miss it, or the rest of his person Ives fully planned to make good use of later.

Ives snatched up a large tin serving dish he'd been keeping by the hearth, dropping the meat into it and offering the meal ceremoniously to Boyd, "are you quite done with your dramatics, then? Or will I have to force-feed you the rest?" His lip curled up slightly in dark amusement.

Those angry blue eyes stared, tried to burn through him, even as shaking hands tore the dish from Ives, and Boyd's bloodied teeth tore into his meal. Always, those eyes watched him. Right down to the very last bite.

* * *

Once, when she was very young, and George couldn't yet walk, Martha's grandfather used to tell her of monsters. He spoke of the evil Anamahkyah who dwelt underground, the Mishipeshu which had dragged her own father to a watery grave in the high of winter while it's great sawed back bobbed above for the rest of them to stare in horror. Sometimes he would tell them of the Memegwesi, whenever something went missing, or she wildly tried to tell him of the furry heads she'd seen ducking in the fields.

Yet even worse than the Misiginebig, the great serpent more terrifying than the Mishipeshu, was the one creature her grandfather only told her of in whispered warnings. The Wendigo.

They could not die as men might, unless they willed it. Their bodies would always be inhabited by the evil spirits, whether by choice or accident, though she didn't really know how it wasn't willful that a man may eat the raw flesh of another. It _had_ to be raw, the first taste. After that it didn't matter. Her grandfather was old, and claimed to have met one once...before her father even came into the world.

 _Run._ He would tell her. You can smell their sour breath in the air. _Run_ when they know you've spotted them for what they are. From the first moment she had met Boyd, she had known what he was. George wasn't so lucky. Yet...it was when they had all disappeared in the wilds for those several days that the smell had truly been foul enough for her to cease doubting the truth of the matter.

She had lingered. Hoped she might find a way to destroy him, for George. Then the other came, and she knew what _true_ evil was. It had not been a difficult decision when Knox all but told her to gather the other white men to deal with Boyd. She had stopped him from attempting to slice Ives throat, because...if he had...Martha didn't doubt the rest of them would be finished off for the stronger monster's supper that very night. A Wendigo never stopped hungering. Never stopped eating. An injured one was far worse.

Martha made her way slowly out of the shelter she'd sought for the past few days, one she'd crafted with her brother for winter hunts. In her arms was a shotgun. In her coat pocket, a knife. If any of them left Fort Spencer, she would do what she could to prevent it from getting any further. If only long enough to find peace for her brother's spirit…

* * *

It would never cease to amaze him how much he could eat, or how quickly he could recover. Boyd marveled at how easy it was to stand, to pace, to move...yet the only blood on his clothes and the strips of linen wrapped about his chest and torso...was already old. The outer layers long since dry. He refused to look at the accusing eye of Lindus, his body splayed on the dining table with a butcher's knife firmly buried in his chest as if he were to be carved within the hour.

"I'll kill you," Boyd warned, watching Ives throw another log onto the cookfire while he seemed to be preparing his own far smaller meal in an iron skillet.

"Yes, I know you will," Ives agreed with a condescending note in his voice.

Boyd clenched his fists, glaring down at the crusts of blood in his cuticles, the way his flesh turned red the second he'd let his knuckles relax. Why couldn't he fight this? Why was yet another man's death piled onto his guilty conscience?

"Dark thoughts," Ives observed, focusing on his skillet, "I didn't have any after my first meal. You seem to be made of them, Boyd."

"You don't know _what_ I'm made of!" He snapped back, brave words sounding far more pathetic, given his actions, than he'd have liked.

"You'd be surprised," Ives chuckled. "I had quite a good view when I helped Lindus change your bandages while you were sleeping."

"Then why didn't you just carve me up, then and there?" Boyd ground his teeth, staring hatefully at Ives.

"Well," Ives took a deep, thoughtful breath, stirring the contents of his skillet, "that's a very good question," he popped a piece of meat into his mouth, savouring it, drawing out the moment with gleeful satisfaction. He knew he was only making Boyd madder. "I think I've already answered it before, in so many ways. I didn't plan to kill you. Still don't. Why would I waste all of the effort I've already put in, when you're far more of a killer than I could ever make on my own?"

"I'm not…" Boyd trailed off, the protest dying on his lips. A very bad lie, now that he didn't have imminent death hanging over him. He could have easily survived the night, another, perhaps the rest of the week...without killing poor Lindus.

 _Aristotle sought truth, not happiness._ Boyd recalled what he'd said to Hart, bitterly realizing that was indeed what he himself had found, in this moment, trapped with what was very likely the only man in the world he couldn't kill.

"Strength," Ives went on, "energy, spirit, vitality, _virility..._ I'm sure you've felt that one. I know you have." Ives twirled his two-pronged fork, casting a very pointed look at Boyd's nether regions, before becoming once more fascinated with the progress of his meal. "Not such a bad trade-off for the paltry little codes we all follow just to keep ourselves alive."

He couldn't help but roll his eyes, finally pulling out a chair from the dining table and sitting down, shoving one of Lindus's booted feet aside. "You talk too much."

"I have to do something to fill the silence. You talk too little," Ives pointed out. "Stuck in your head, worrying over the morality you seem to find so important. Rules only made so that one man can survive and feel a little bit safer knowing his neighbor won't likely stab him and take his money. Why should we care, though? You're outside, now, Boyd. Enjoy it. Live a little." He grinned, popping another piece of meat into his mouth and yanking his skillet from the fire to dump his ' _Hash a La Lindus_ ' into a tin bowl. He set the skillet aside and stood up, taking yet another bite as he approached Boyd.

"You have no soul," Boyd stated flatly.

"Forgive me for saying so, but, ah, you're hardly one to talk anymore. If such thing as a soul even exists." He settled down at the table beside him, heartily enjoying his meal while Boyd watched.

It was the longest five minutes the exhausted soldier had ever experienced, watching the other eat, waiting for some sort of unpredictable insanity to develop. A punch to his stomach, a bullet to his head, a knife across his neck...he could see his blood spilling down his chest so clearly, he could smell it…

But...that was just Lindus. Poor, dead Lindus. Boyd hated how the silence seemed to make him more aware, hungry again for what no reasonable man should want. His pulse hummed. His heart beat out a strange, violent rhythm, even as Ives placed the last bite of meat and potato on his tongue, devouring it with just as much gusto as the first. There was a sharp hiss of breath, then...he licked his lips, and a thread of blood seemed to blossom on the pale pink flesh.

"What're you-" Boyd's eyes shot open wide in alarm, when quick as a viper, Ives dropped his plate on the table and lashed out with an arm to bring his face close, pressing bloodied lip to lip, wounded tongue darting across his, sharp nails digging into Boyd's scalp as he struggled to shove him away. He tasted _so good..._ he tasted…

Ives released him and stood up, smoothing his shirt, "I'll have to clean up in here, Boyd. Why don't you go back to bed, hm? I'm sure we'll have plenty to talk about over breakfast."

The bastard's amused laughter tormented him all the way back to his quarters, and so too did the unfortunate arousal that seemed to appear after his unwanted assault.

"Damn you," Boyd snapped, before he hastily propped a chair in front of his door, then thought better of it. He wasn't afraid. He wouldn't have Ives think he was a coward. Boyd slept with a kitchen knife he'd swiped from the table. It was a shame the knife didn't prevent his dreams. Or the continuously taunting laughter as Ives passed by outside.


	6. Truce

Author's notes: Promise the next chapter coming up has the good bit you've all been waiting for. -obligatory double wink-

* * *

Wonderful. Slauson felt without a doubt he had never felt such a reviving sleep, or a morning appetite quite so exciting. Even the itchy, threadbare wool of his blanket couldn't ruin the General's morning. This short stay should have, by all accounts, been a miserable experience. Yet here he was, and it seemed each extra day delayed by the snow made him stronger and stronger.

"Looking very smart today, general. Quite smart indeed," he complimented himself as he inspected his face in his shaving mirror, only marred by the chipped surface of the glass itself. There seemed to be a glow in his cheeks. His hand had been absolutely steady as he trimmed his moustache. Yes, sir, there was no doubt about it. Slauson was quite a specimen. Far more fit than half the men his age.

A smart knock at the door to his temporary quarters, followed by the distinctly healthy and cheerful voice of Colonel Ives himself distracted the General from his ill-conceived narcissism for the moment, "General, will you want to take breakfast in your room before you depart this morning? Unfortunately, Lindus was forced to take to his bed this morning from a sudden illness. He had a terrible pain in his eye."

"In his eye?"

"Yes, quite nasty, from what I could tell. Perhaps he hasn't been washing up properly."

Slauson was more than a little surprised. Normally, his assistant was in excellent health, attending the sick notwithstanding. He'd never had eye troubles before. "Are you quite sure? Did he wish to tell me anything before he retired?"

"General, if you'll forgive me, I don't think he's in any condition to talk." The door inched open, a breath of crisp air carrying with it the intoxicating scent of the man's cooking.

"Well," Slauson began, clearing his throat and settling into a poorly-built chair beside his bed, "I suppose it can't be helped. Yes, breakfast first, and then I think I should see to my horse. Hopefully it shouldn't take too long to gather the men we'll need to bring this Fort back into proper order."

Damned odd. _Damned_ odd.

Colonel Ives, with impressive grace, managed to shift the tray of food he was holding to balance on one arm, so that he could reach into his trouser pocket and pull out a pristine handkerchief. He gave it a smart snap and settled it onto Slauson's lap. "The food's a bit hot," Ives explained, setting the tray down onto the mattress so that Slauson could pick and choose what he wished to eat. There was an awful lot.

"I was under the impression yesterday evening there was no more fresh meat," Slauson remarked, eyeing the meal. A fresh cut of good steak, a cup of good coffee still steaming, biscuits, and even a small jar or preserves. He hadn't even known there was any.

"From my personal supplies," Ives explained before he could even ask.

"Thank you, Colonel. I'm increasingly impressed with how quickly you're recovering. Every day you prove yourself more and more indispensable. Perhaps soon you'll be seeing the last of Fort Spencer."

"Yes, well-" Ives trailed off, a certain smile playing on his lips. The reaction to an unspoken joke. He seemed to be quite full of those. General Slauson had never met a man so agreeable in such a miserable situation, nor quite so patient with a madman as he had been with Boyd.

"Were you going to say something?" Slauson prompted, snatching up his plate from the tray, and hardly pausing long enough to properly chew once he began to saw into the meat with a knife and fork.

"I don't doubt it. Fort Spencer seems to be losing some of its novelty," Ives admitted, "perhaps I should consider retiring, in due time of course." He pressed a hand to his chest, "in truth, I still haven't quite recovered, General, and I don't think-" He was interrupted by a sudden cry outside, the squeal of terrified animals.

"The horses!" General Slauson exclaimed, shoving his plate back onto his bed and wiping at his greased moustache with the handkerchief on his lap.

Ives was the first out the door, and if Slauson had been looking at him, he would have caught a glimpse of the same monster Boyd had tried to warn them about. Enraged, cold, and focused entirely on the wild-eyed man standing outside of the main building of the fort while the horses raced past him, and the wooden structures began to be consumed by flames.

* * *

So he was a killer. He couldn't fight his appetite when it took over in the face of death, which he was beginning to think he would always be a hairsbreadth from for as long as he lived. That was fine. Boyd would be damned a thousand times quicker, though, if he continued to let Ives stalk Fort Spencer in his sheep's clothes.

Men would die. By Boyd's hands. By Ives'. That didn't mean Boyd was going to embrace it, even if he had to make the whole world burn around him.

The warmth of the spreading fire felt good, helped him still his nerves while he looked the devil in the face a hundred feet away. It warmed his snow-soaked duster. It gave him the strength to raise the hunting knife in his arm and point it towards Ives, challenging him to come forward again, to finish what they'd started before they'd been caught in that trap.

No words between them. Only anger. Only hatred. _Nothing more,_ Boyd thought, trudging forward in the snow on legs far stronger than they'd been the night before. With a will, and ferocity he was becoming well-acquainted with after a satisfying meal. The last cold portions of Lindus' flesh he'd allowed himself that morning before he'd started the fire had gone a long way in healing the remainders of his wounds.

"Boyd!" General Slauson shouted, the general command in his tone he'd normally sported fleeing in the face of fear. Fear of the man approaching, rather than the one at his side he should be far more worried about. "Captain Boyd!" He cried out again, this time far louder, attempting to get through to him.

Ives merely watched, waited, even when the General tore back into his quarters before the fire had come close to spreading to that part of the fort.

"Is this what you want, Boyd," Ives spread his arms, "ash and snow?" He sneered, "you didn't even have the wits to save any leftovers, did you?"

Boyd continued walking towards him, his knife still drawn and steady. He fully intended to use it, too, until the poorly-aimed shot of Slauson's pistol tore into his shoulder and sent Boyd stumbling back to the ground in near agony. Needless to say, he dropped the knife.

Smoke, and snow, and the taste of gunpowder in the air. Blood on his gums from breakfast, uncooked, raw with life. The telltale sound of cracking bones, when Boyd just managed to push himself into a sitting position with his one good arm, just in time to witness Ives snap Slauson's neck.

He was sick to his stomach, and he wanted to retch. He wanted to expel the demon that had taken over his life and his spirit, yet still hadn't made him strong enough to kill Ives. Nor recover as quickly from being shot.

Boyd slumped back on the ground, to let the blood ooze from his wound into the snow, and wait for Ives to finally come finish him off. Maybe he was right. It would have been smarter if Boyd had saved some of the meat for later.

* * *

Ives had been debating with himself that morning. He truly had. Would it be wiser to strengthen Slauson a little more, give him a fresh cut of raw meat, build the proper addiction to welcome him to the fold so they could pursue his initial plan of proper domesticity at Fort Spencer? Should he take what opportunities he could to simply fatten the man up a bit, and experiment, see what a Wendigo's flesh tasted like compared to a normal man? Or just scrap everything, kill him, and be done with the place altogether?

It was fortunate Boyd made the decision for him. He was tiring of For Spencer anyway. Better to find somewhere with good weather the majority of the year. Perhaps there really was something more to be said for manifest destiny. Why stop here? They might as well migrate somewhere warm. The people would be far plumper there compared to the meager travelers they were likely to find en route.

Something to consider, but right now there were more pressing concerns, namely: the fire, the dead General at his feet, and Boyd still lying near one of the burning buildings pulling his Hamlet act for the second or maybe third time. Really, the man should have been a thespian for all the needless drama he created.

"I should leave you out here!" Ives shouted, not bothering to maintain any sort of false geniality. He was no longer in the mood. "Let you freeze. Thaw you out when your fingers and prick turn black!"

Boyd didn't bother responding; a habit Ives was becoming quite used to. So, very patiently, he threw Slauson's body over his shoulder and stalked away from the clearing of the Fort, unsatisfied until he was far enough to take in several gulps of fresh air without smoke to ruin his mood even further.

"There," he rasped, tossing Slauson to the ground, "I hope you don't mind," Ives added, kneeling down to pat at the man's coat pocket. He'd at least had the wherewithal to throw it on before he ran back out to shoot Boyd. Ives' hand wrapped around something hard and smooth, tucked into the General's woolen coat pocket. He quickly yanked it out, examining the hand-carved treasure he'd found. A small knife with a deer-horn handle. A bit ornamental and gaudy, but it would do.

"Peculiar hobby, General," Ives mused. "I had no idea you were a carver. Perhaps I was a bit hasty disposing of you, but I'm sure you understand. We need the fresh meat." He hopped to his feet, stalking back towards the burning monstrosity he'd left behind. Odd that he felt so compelled to persist in keeping the woefully mad wendigo he'd helped forge: Boyd, who hardly seemed able to cope well with dinner conversation, let alone cannibalism.

Ives returned to the raging fire of what was Fort Spencer, but would soon be just another memory of ash and death, only to find a large blood stain in the snow where Boyd had been lying.

"Son of a-" He began to curse, when he felt those strong, cold fingers digging into the back of his coat and shoving him forward. Ives spun about, tossing the knife up in the air and brandishing it at Boyd with the mind to slice the man open even as Boyd continued to stumble forward with his own knife in hand.

"You never quit, do you?" Ives demanded, almost impressed. Boyd's recovery time was improving. His instincts getting even sharper.

"I said I was going to kill you," Boyd stated, clenching his jaw, "I meant it."

"Oh yes," Ives hissed, "I know you did. This is all turning into your favorite game, isn't it, Boyd?" He used the strongest tool in his arsenal, his voice and Boyd's self-doubt. Like a charm, it was working already, when the man in front of Ives hesitated. Just a moment. Long enough for him to step just a little bit closer.

"This isn't a game," Boyd snapped, taking in several shallow breaths. The pain in his shoulder was readily apparent, and so was the blood still dripping down his arm, much of it coating the hand that held his knife. "You're a monster."

" _We're_ monsters." Ives clarified, edging around towards Boyd's wounded side to gain more of an advantage if he had to take the man down. "Me. You. Preach all you want to me about morality, but in the end you _did_ kill, and you _did_ eat again. I didn't force your hand."

"I didn't want to."

"Want. It's a very different word from _need,_ isn't it?" Ives questioned with a self-satisfied smirk. "I _want_ to kill you, and I'm sure you _want_ to do the same, but face facts. We need each other. I need someone to alleviate my boredom when there's nobody to eat, and you need me to make you feel like less of a coward. A _monster,_ as you put it. You can't kill me, Boyd. You can't even kill yourself. You'll only end up driving yourself into the same state you were in last night when you carved into poor Lindus." He continued to talk, stepping even closer, just enough to touch or stab...or even be stabbed.

"I won't kill anyone else," Boyd replied, though something finally seemed to have gotten through his thick skull, because his arm was finally falling, his hand growing lax to let the knife fall.

"You will," Ives insisted, "but if you stop fighting me, Boyd, maybe you won't kill quite so many." It was a lie, of course. The more they ate, the more they'd want. A nuisance when there wasn't anybody around, but by the time Boyd learned the truth for what it was, he wouldn't care anymore. For Ives, of course, it had only taken one meal. For Boyd, perhaps it would take a dozen.

"I'll make my offer one more time, Boyd," Ives went on, lowering his own knife, "join me. Come with me. I meant what I said when I promised I wouldn't force you to do anything. I don't have to. If you don't, well, I know I can't quite kill you," he paused, his grin growing even larger, "but I could leave you here. With nothing and no one to eat, or to stop you from eating when someone shows up to find out what happened to the General and Lindus."

Boyd didn't have to say anything. His resentful glare was answer enough. Perhaps not quite broken, but Ives had finally managed to crack him. "Come on," he offered his free arm, "I've got a small shelter not too far from here. I didn't expect to have to use it again so soon, but you've got a bullet wound to see to."

"What?"

"You didn't honestly think I slept out in the snow when I first showed up here, did you, Boyd?"

"I don't trust you."

Ives laughed, pocketing his knife as Boyd finally leaned against him, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

"Well, that can't be helped, can it? I wouldn't trust me either."


	7. Satisfaction

Author's notes: Adult content in this chapter, gang. At long last.

* * *

Martha always watched. Always listened. When George or Cleaves would smoke, laughing their boredom and cold away, or Knox would drink himself into sickly stupors, she watched. When Toffler would pray over their meals, and Colonel Hart would regale them with his clumsily translated paragraphs of ancient Greek battles, she would listen. Last night, this morning, and well into the afternoon she did both.

When the first ring of black smoke kissed the sky, she watched.

When the gunshot rang out into the cool morning, she listened.

Then, finally, she tucked a piece of pemmican into her mouth, shouldered her rifle, and climbed towards the skyline.

* * *

It wasn't easy, picking his way through the trees with a throbbing shoulder. Each step drove the rhythm of the throbbing through Boyd's skull, while Ives strode ahead of him far too easily. What's more, he had the General's body slung over his shoulder like a freshly-slain deer, and each time Ives had to step over a rock or fallen branch, Slauson's head would bob up just enough for Boyd to catch a glimpse of those dead _accusing_ eyes.

All the while, he wondered why he kept following. Boyd attempted to reason with himself, crowding his head with dark thoughts of repentance, of keeping Ives' evil from spreading, but who was he to judge now? He had stepped into the fire, and he had been judged. His hunger had burned far too much for Boyd to ignore it.

Worse, now, he craved more. It was becoming harder to care. So much harder.

"It really is beautiful out here, isn't it?" Ives called back to him, somehow managing to break through the sound of Boyd's racing heart.

"It's cold," he replied, having no intention to play the game of civility, despite their temporary agreement not to kill each other. Maybe tonight once they had a roof over their heads, or wherever Ives was leading him, he would catch the man unaware. Bind him so he couldn't fight. Strangle him. Stab him. Lick the blood from the knife...cut Ives to ribbons and suck on the wounds while he bled out.

Boyd huffed, angry with himself for letting those thoughts come back, despite his best efforts to push them away.

Ives came to an abrupt halt, and Boyd almost stumbled into him, as focused as he'd been on his own traitorous mind.

"Here we are," Ives nodded ahead of him, using his one free arm to steady Boyd on his feet. "My home away from home. Something like that." The smile he gave Boyd was almost pleasant.

It was a cabin. Small and rough, packed into the wilds as if some large hand had pressed the trees around it to the ground just enough to fit the shabby building to the ground, before letting the trees fly back up to crowd the outer walls, bowing the sides and coming very close to caving the roof in. Boyd wouldn't be surprised at all if they found a nest of venomous snakes inside lying in wait.

Ives seemed to have no such trepidations, however, as he cheerfully strode towards the front door, tossing Slauson's body to the ground. "Come on, Boyd. I can feel another cold front coming in," he stepped inside, disappearing into darkness.

Boyd stared down at the dead General, growing more agitated by those eyes now than sorry, as the man really had never shown him anything but professional contempt. It was wrong, and he knew it, but for a moment Boyd began to actually feel _glad_ the man was gone, and in his stead they were left with what would make for a few good meals.

"Are you coming?" Ives inquired from inside the cabin. There was a faint light coming from the doorway now. He must have lit a few candles.

Boyd reluctantly stepped over Slauson's corpse, and went inside. It was far too late to turn back now.

Despite the poor state of the outside, the cabin was almost fastidiously clean, with the very thinnest layers of dust coating a piece of furniture here and there. Boyd noted the smell of old rust and blood, his eyes settling on a coat of furs slung over a wooden chair near the fireplace, the sewn-together patches of hide seeming to undulate under the dancing shadows of Ives' candles he'd placed at a round table crowded against the opposite wall. A pile of logs waited beside the hearth, a tinder box on the table.

Then, of course, there was the bed. Sturdier than the pathetic cots at Fort Spencer, and far softer-looking than those he'd had to make for himself traveling on the field, or any bed Boyd had encountered since he had enlisted. Still, there was only one. He wasn't sure whether he had the energy right now to fight for it.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, far too warm for a man who'd been stalking through the snow for the past hour, but Boyd managed to remain indifferent to the touch.

"Lay down," Ives advised, nodding towards the hearth, "it'll be awhile before I get a fire going-" he paused, leaning a little closer to whisper into Boyd's ear, "you'll be safe until then. I _promise._ "

Boyd was getting far too used to the man's dark humor; he hardly even batted an eyelid at that remark before he threw himself to the bed, despite the fact that the fibres of his shirt and coat were still clinging to the sticky wound on his shoulder. The skin had tried to heal, but he could _feel_ the shards of the bullet pressed beneath his red, raw flesh.

Days, weeks, months of rough living seemed to melt away from his muscles. He wasn't sure how long he floated at the edge of sleep, aware of Ive's presence and hardly able to care enough to watch him any more. Boyd was _tired_ in so very many ways.

Distantly, he heard a match striking, and he couldn't tell whether the soft hymn being sung was the ghost of Toffler or the mocking voice of Ives.

* * *

It was _very_ messy work, but Ives had long gotten used to the mundanities of preparing his meals. While he had no qualms with simply stripping a piece of flesh from the bone and popping it into his mouth, there was something to be said for presentation. Style. Etiquette. He may be a monster, but he'd like to think he was a civilized one.

While Boyd slept, he made record time dealing with the former General as best he could, digging through supplies he'd left in the cabin to at least wrap the meat he could gather in tanned buckskins to keep the flies away. Not that they'd have any chances in this weather. Fresh snow was already beginning to fall. Very strange weather, but Ives had seen worse.

He washed himself in an icy stream, cracking the thin ice with a sharp rock; Ives scrubbed himself until his skin was raw and flushed. He used an old bucket to gather water for later. He was glad for the lodging he'd adopted over the spring, ever thankful that trappers were so plentiful that he could rarely travel far without at least having one good meal or shelter to stay in. Company and conversation until he got hungry, too. He wondered if perhaps he could enjoy the former now to distract himself a little for rougher winters. For there were still weeks Ives _had_ gone without anything but game or roots.

Wishful thinking? Maybe. So far, none of Ives' plans had seemed to work as well as he'd liked. Boyd, perhaps, was more trouble than he was worth, and yet-

Ives stood up, just as he'd finished buttoning his trousers, squinting through the snow. Early evening, and he could hear branches cracking. Heavy breath-falls. Not like an animal's. The fresh scent of sweat. A woman. He smirked, kneeling down to pick up his shirt, tossing it over his shoulder.

"Join us for dinner, Martha," he called out, "there's always room for... _one more_." He would let the threat speak for itself. She was smart. He wouldn't put it past her. Let her decide how smart she actually was tonight. Ives had better things to do than wait around.

"Safe travel to you, then!" He called out behind him, jogging towards the cabin. In truth, the cold was getting to him.

* * *

Hart was cracking walnuts when Boyd walked into the room. Undeterred, he continued with his work, "welcome to Fort Spencer, Boyd," the dead man invited him to sit with a swift gesture towards the chair in front of his desk.

"Colonel?"

He grinned back at Boyd, pressing a hand to his head to cover the mangled half of his face, "sorry about that, but you remember how it was. Can't get any good doctors here. Like I said, don't get sick, Boyd. I still can't say you shouldn't eat though, can I?" He smiled, or tried to. It was difficult with only half a jaw. He tossed one of his books aside and used his free hand to pick through the walnut shreds on his desk.

"Most of us have to," Boyd repeated, jerking up in bed. He was beginning to doubt he'd get any peace in his sleep. It was _warm,_ now, though _._ God, he'd begun to forget what that felt like. He could see Ives crouched in front of the fireplace stoking the logs. How long had he slept?

"Awake, Boyd?" Ives inquired, setting his poker aside and dusting off his hands. He wasn't…

"You're not wearing a shirt," he replied flatly. There was no heat left in his words. No accusation. What was the point?

"No," Ives stood up, turning slowly to face him, a glowing knife in hand. "I'm not. You'll want to take yours off. It'll be easier that way."

"WHAT?!" Boyd yelped, standing up and nearly leaping towards the door.

Ives was faster than him, a hand on his neck before he could properly react, as he slammed Boyd back down onto the bed. "I've got to cut the bullet out," Ives explained calmly, "unless you _want_ that little souvenir in there for the rest of your life."

"You're shirtless!" Boyd hissed back at him, trying to yank and pull at the hand wrapped firmly around his neck.

"I don't want to get blood on it," Ives replied, exasperated. "You're a man, John, act like one. You saw my ass the first night we met. Now, _take off your shirt or I will rip it off._ "

Faced with the choice of a pointless fight he knew he'd lose, and the possibility of having to wear those bloodied furs on the chair later once his shirt was no longer serviceable, Boyd reluctantly settled back, "fine," he mumbled between gritted teeth.

That was all Ives needed to relax his hand and pull back, straddling him so he couldn't change his mind and make another escape attempt. At least, that was what Boyd told himself so he could focus on peeling his coat away, flinching slightly when he moved his affected arm. He could feel the shards of metal poking into his muscle and skin. The fresh air felt good, though, once he'd finally shaken his shirt off and dropped it beside the bed.

"There," Ives gave his cheek a good, patronizing little pinch. "Good boy," he praised him, reaching down towards Boyd's belt.

"What're you-"

"You need to bite down on something. This is going to hurt," Ives shoved Boyd's hands away, quickly unbuckling him and shoving the cheap material into Boyd's mouth. "Now, bite."

The pain was excruciating. Boyd screamed the moment the blade cut into his skin, gouged and tore. A surgeon Ives most definitely wasn't. He felt the digging. The scraping. It seemed endless, and maybe it was, but then he heard the blade clatter to the ground and he spat the belt out to breathe in deep gulps.

A warm hand brushed sweaty hair from his brow, while lips pressed against his wound and a tongue lapped at the bloody shreds of skin. Ives moaned against his shoulder, and, god, Boyd was ashamed to whimper and press himself up against the monster in response.

"There," Ives rasped, pulling back, teeth stained with Boyd's blood, "feeling better?"

"You can get off now."

"Can I?" Ives asked, idly reaching running his thumb along the wound. Boyd took in a deep breath, even as he leaned down to press his mouth to Boyd's neck, licking and nibbling on the skin there. "Is that what you really want?"

"Y-" Boyd whimpered, involuntarily lifting his hips when Ives pressed down to grind against him. "Yes!" He demanded, finally letting go. He was, of course. Answering an entirely different question. The pain and hunger had driven him mad.

Uncharacteristically, Ives didn't say a word, though that may have been because his mouth was too busy trailing down from Boyd's neck to his shoulder for one last lick before he used one hand to deftly jerk Boyd's pants open and grasp his hard, aching member.

"Do you want me to keep going?" Ives panted, lowering himself until his lips just barely brushed the tip. Boyd couldn't believe he was even asking, given the man's nature. He should say no. Stop this before it went any further. Fortunately for him, Ives wasn't patient enough to wait for Boyd's inner battle to come to a head, figuratively, of course.

He gasped when Ives' mouth engulfed him, employing far more skill than Boyd would have expected from another man. Better than the few desperate afternoons as a youth he'd spent sneaking behind his mother's house with mayfly loves. This was the same monster who'd murdered, eaten, left a bloody trail in his wake across the frontier, and he didn't know _why_ he'd wanted this so desperately.

Boyd tried to writhe, move, press himself further into Ives' mouth, but one firm arm reached up to press at his chest, keeping him pinned to the bed. He whimpered, then, curling fingers into dark, cold hair. Wet...had he just washed?

The pain in his shoulder was numb, now, completely washed away then by a scream of release, and the arm on his chest relaxed.

"That was-" Boyd began to speak, his voice cracking.

"I'm not done," Ives informed him, once he'd pulled back and greedily licked his lips. "You'll never leave me." His voice was deep, menacing, as he yanked Boyd's pants down and off, which he hardly had the energy left to fight. Or the desire.

"What?" Boyd slung and arm over his face, groaning. He didn't want to have another chat about morality and humanity. He was tired of it. Tired of fighting.

"You're _mine,_ " Ives clarified, peeling his own pants off and tossing them to the ground.

Boyd stared up at the stronger Wendigo, lowering his arm with one half-hearted glare, "I said I'd kill you. I _will_." Even to himself, the words sounded like an empty threat now. A joke. A trite little line from a threepenny opera.

Ives snorted, his hands quickly snaking down to pin Boyd's arms above his head, "I promise _I'll die inside you_." His kiss was rough, hot, and long while he bore down on Boyd, grinding against him with a beastial growl of need.

* * *

He smells _delicious,_ and there's little fear this time, much like their greatest fight when he and Boyd had been forced into the deadly embrace of the trap, blood and flesh mingling together, labored breaths rattling through punctured lungs. Ives had never craved another so desperately as he did then and now.

Food. Sex. Pleasure. A Wendigo thrived on satisfaction, taking what it wanted, seeing little difference between desire and _need._ This was so much more. He needed Boyd. He needed that delicate thread of semi-sanity to break up his days of monotony, of chasing the highs of a new slaughter. Ives did not hate his lifestyle. He reveled in it. Still-he was lonely.

Boyd bit his bottom lip, drawing out a surprised groan from Ives as he felt John's tongue dart out to lick at the pink flesh there, drawing in the taste of him. A taste he gladly gave, before breaking away so he could push Boyd's legs to his chest. Dazed, he tried to wriggle free from the strange position he's held in, but Ives won't let go. _Never._

"I could hurt you," Ives taunted, unable to hold back the small laugh he'd been holding in since the moment he pressed the blade to Boyd's skin, felt his cock grow hard even as his last scrap of patience burned away. Tender words didn't come easy to Ives, not in the way of any normal lover. He was a killer. He took...never gave…

But now, with one flinch and intake of breath from his reluctant lover, he somehow softened a little. "I won't," Ives promised, leaned down again to press his lips to the man's chest while he drew a hand to Boyd's hole, stroking, and slowly pressing a finger into him. The look of near surprise on the man's pleasure-drunk face was enough to urge him further, gradually working him open with patience so razor-thin, Ives had to bite back a growl of frustration.

The dancing shadows of the fire cast strange shapes over Boyd's arms as he twisted fingers into the furs beneath them, letting out shallow, satisfying gasps.

When he was _finally_ ready, Ives was not nearly so sweet or patient, driving his cock into the man with feverish need. He took him hard, fast, and greedily. Then when Boyd finally seemed to find a rhythm with him, halfway between panicked and almost as desperate for the same pleasured race to completion. This time, it was Ives who screamed as he buried himself with one final, almost painful thrust, crushing his lips into Boyd's once he'd caught his breath.

By the time the fire in the hearth had been reduced to a thousand glowing eyes, they were fast asleep, crushed in each other's embrace.


	8. Breakfast

She heard them, with winter's dying breath as it carried their lustful screams through the trees. It hadn't taken much effort to track Ives to their shelter. Martha declined to accept the invitation to dine with them, and instead set to work tying strips of muslin and old fabrics to the trees surrounding the place. While night consumed the light, and visions of her dead brother danced in her eyes, Martha worked.

When she could no longer see past her nose, she used her hands to find the trees, dirt-painted cuticles scraping over the bark as her feet painted a memory of the path through the woods. She would not forget this place. Neither would the rodents scurrying over her feet, rushing away from the scent of danger. No animal rested well near the home of a Wendigo.

* * *

Boyd woke without pain. While there were certain aches he could ignore, the agony of his bullet injury had all but disappeared. He shouldn't be surprised. He'd recovered from being stabbed, from having his leg broken, even from nearly having his spine snapped in half. There truly was nothing, it seemed, that he couldn't survive. Even his own self-disgust. Even Ives.

Speaking of Ives, he hadn't gotten up to prepare breakfast, nor had he stoked the coals or tossed more wood onto the fire. Instead, the embers had died into the night, and their cabin was chilled, save for the dubious comfort of the fur-covered bed Boyd sat in beside the sleeping demon. For all intents and purposes, though, he looked anything but.

In fact, Ives looked quite peaceful in sleep. Almost human. For a moment, Boyd wondered whether Ives would notice if he slipped away, put as much distance between them as possible. Would he fare better, be more apt at tamping down the monster in his own body?

While it was nice to pretend, Boyd knew he was fooling himself. Ives or not, the hunger would never leave him. It had been his own hand that drove him to murder Lindus. His own stubborn choice to live moved him to carve into Reich. His own choice to…

Boyd's hand unconsciously touched his own lips, where he'd let Ives bite. Kiss. Devour. Just the thought of the _word_ ignited his appetite, and by then Boyd honestly had no idea just how long he'd been staring down at the man beside him, or how long Ives had been staring back. Wide awake. That familiar little smile of smug satisfaction.

"Sleep well, Boyd? No nightmares?"

"There was one," he replied, not inclined to smile back. "I don't think it's over yet."

Ives sat up, tilting his head back to stretch his neck with a soft groan. No smart little response or threat. No taunts. "How about breakfast?"

It was not an enjoyable affair, dressing himself with Ives following his every move, and his shirt had been far too crusted with blood to salvage. He crumpled the fabric in his hands, perching at the edge of the bed and contemplating what he should do. Perhaps he could get by with just the coat. There wasn't quite as much blood on _it._

"You might try asking me for help. If you need it." Ives remarked, walking past him towards the fireplace, completely shameless of his own naked state. "There should be a few things here and there. I kept some supplies beneath the floorboards by the door, Boyd." He knelt down, snatching up a log to toss it over the dead coals, "unless you'd rather stay inside today and wait for me. I promise I'll come back."

"Wait for you?" Boyd jerked to attention, glaring over at Ives and tossing his shirt to the ground, "where are you going?" He wished that pesky little note of panic hadn't crept into his voice, but at this point Boyd honestly had no idea what he was going to do. He didn't want to be alone right now, even if his only company was a half-mad cannibal.

"We had a visitor last night. I think you may have been a little distracted," Ives replied, his eyes roving slowly over Boyd. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he'd meant.

"You weren't?" Boyd snapped right back at him.

"Oh, I most definitely was," Ives voice dipped into a purr, "but I could still smell her."

"Her-" Boyd's eyes widened when it clicked almost immediately after he'd started to speak.

 _Martha._

Boyd surged to his feet, "what do you intend to do?"

"Me?" Ives looked back at him with a look of almost convincing false innocence, which Boyd easily saw for the lie it was.

"Let her go. I don't know why she was here last night, but let her go."

Ives advanced towards him with surprising speed, one hand lashing out to grip Boyd's chin and force the man to face him, "how _long_ do you think the rest of that old man will last us, John? Three days? Five, if we're lucky? Play the pious victim all you want when you've emptied your plate, but do _not_ try to think for even a moment that I'll do the same. We're in this together now, and Martha knows too much about us. If we don't do something now, we'll be somewhere far worse than a bear trap," he leaned closer, lips brushing up against Boyd's ear, "and it won't be nearly as pleasant. Eat or die, John. You've already made the choice."

Boyd pried the man's fingers from his chin, shoving his hand away with a soft growl, "she doesn't deserve this. None of them did."

" _Deserve?_ " Ives scoffed, "that's a pretty word, isn't it? Deserve? Oh, I've got another one for you," he stepped back, snatching up one of the furs on the bed beside them to wrap it about his shoulders. "How about ' _justice_ '? Or ' _honor'_? Love? Innocence? Piety? They're just words, Boyd. Words that have no meaning to a predator. Empty, stupid, _human_ words. I don't care what she or anyone else deserves. If they can't survive, then they are nothing but food. They're beneath me. Beneath _you._ The sooner you learn that, the sooner you'll learn to enjoy yourself."

He'd finally struck a nerve with Ives. There was no smile, nor any sign of the patience the man had seemed to possess in abundance before Boyd had given into his hunger and murdered Lindus. He had begun to pace the cabin now, dragging the fur behind him like a feral cape to match his nature, "deserve," Ives repeated again under his breath, struggling with the very idea.

For a moment, or perhaps less, Boyd was tempted to say something to calm him down. Appease him. Then he realized with self-disgust that appeasing the bastard should be the last thing on his mind right now. What he _should_ be focusing on again was destroying him. A good night's rest had completely revived the pair. There was no reason he shouldn't attack Ives right now, except…

Well, he didn't really _want_ to anymore. Maybe Ives' insanity was catching. Or it already had.

"I'll make a fire, perhaps something to eat before we leave," Ives informed him curtly, letting the fur fall to the ground as he approached the chair at the table where he'd neatly folded his clothes at some point during the night, which meant he hadn't likely slept through the hours quite as well as Boyd had.

"Did you leave last night?" It suddenly struck Boyd how tired Ives looked. Not quite as well-rested as he'd thought.

"Perhaps," the man replied, keeping his eyes stubbornly averted from Boyd as he dressed, "I went for a walk." There was something in his tone. A hint of-

"You're scared," it suddenly struck him. "You're afraid of her."

"No," Ives replied testily as he fastened the buttons of his shirt, "I'm not. I'm cautious. I'm smart. She knows what we are, and for all I know she _might_ know about some sort of weakness we have that I don't."

Boyd lifted his chin, all too happy to whisper the word, "coward."

"Pardon?"

"I said you're a _coward,_ " Boyd snapped back, looking him dead in the eye as he imitated the same tone Ives had used with him when he'd thrown the same insult in his face.

"John," Ives replied, his voice suddenly far calmer, more like the usual cheerful tone he generally applied to every conversation in which he had the upper hand, "I know you're new at this. I mean, it isn't _easy,"_ he stressed the last word with an odd twitch of his eyebrows and turn of his head, "well, not for someone like you, who've spent most of your time moping and hiding from what we are, but…"

In an instant, there was a knife at Boyd's throat, sharp, cold. Pressed against his skin and dragging a very soft trail downwards. Where had Ives even been hiding it?

"I'm sure you remember how very difficult it is to die, if not impossible," Ives whispered, pressing the blade a little more forcefully, enough to puncture, focusing on the blood that welled up there. Boyd held his breath, refusing to move, just in case it earned him an even worse injury. Given their history, it seemed an inevitability.

"Trust me, I know how to make you scream in ways you might not like as much as others," Ives leaned closer, removing the blade and licking at the trail of blood. Boyd didn't know whether he was shivering from disgust or, well, _that._

"Grab a shirt from under the floorboards," Ives licked the blood from his knife and tucked it into his belt, "I'll make breakfast, and then we'll get ourselves re-acquainted with our friend out there."

He knew if he didn't go with Ives, Martha had little chance of surviving the day.

"So, are we going to have a nice meal together, or am I going to have to pretend to force feed you?" Ives inquired, kneeling in front of the fireplace and grabbing a few extra logs beside his tinder box he'd placed nearby.

Boyd sat down on the bed, not quite defeated, and not quite in denial anymore.

"I'll eat," he ground out, "if I have to."

Ives grinned back at him over his shoulder, "I insist."


End file.
